Imprint
by elvesdragon
Summary: Everyone has an imprint, the knowledge that would eventually lead them to their soul-mates. All, except Sherlock, as John finds out. Set after Season 3 (word of caution, I did not have the heart to see the last episode, so many things are inaccurate.)


Right, so **Silver Rose **was supposed to be written. Unfortunately, for both me and the ones waiting for it, I get easily side-tracked by Sherlock Holmes. Also, I've been reading "soul-mates" fics. And i tried my hand at one. Not sure if it's any good, but I got it out of my system, at least.

So, here's to hoping you like it.

**Standard disclaimer applies: _I don't own Sherlock, in neither of his_ representations!**

* * *

"You did WHAT?"

"Dull, John! You know I hate repeating myself."

The baritone voice of Sherlock Holmes was calm, if a bit on the impatient side.

Dr. John H. Watson, on the other hand was bewildered…. No…. furious even.

"Sherlock, no one deletes their imprint. It's just… it's just wrong."

The detective did not answer. Verbally, that is. He turned his back to his blogger and closed his eyes.

Everyone is born with an imprint, the one knowledge that leads you to your one, the one person that completes you in every sense. Well, everyone except Sherlock, thought John. The doctor had been looking for his imprint ever since he learned of its existence. And he even thought to have found his soulmate in Mary Morstan. Sweet, lovable Mary, the only person to date that not even accepted the life John had lead, but also the person to accept and even encourage Sherlock. And what if the feeling of completeness never enveloped John the moment he saw or thought of his wife. She was the one. Until he found out who she really was. Until he found out that she already had an imprint, far away. An imprint she was willing to leave in order to protect herself. He went a bit mad at that. He filled for a divorce the second day Sherlock was out of danger and moved right back in Baker Street. Sherlock, of course, did not say anything. He just looked at John and then it was as if Sherlock had never fell, had never destroyed John's life and built it up again.

And now, John finds out that Sherlock deleted the only knowledge of happiness. Oh, John knew exactly what Sherlock thought of the needs of his transport, but he had never thought he would be so callous as to go to such lengths.

"I'm going out!" he said.

"We're out of milk", was his only reply.

* * *

Outside 221 B, John took a deep breath, released it and turned…. only to bump into Mycroft Holmes. Of course, thought John. Of course it had to be him.

"Doctor, so wonderful to see you. Is Sherlock inside?" the British government asked in a pleasant tone of voice.

"Yeah, he's upstairs. He's in a mood, though, fair warning."

John may not have liked Mycroft very much, may have even hated him at one point, but he could not deny that the man cared for his brother. If it hadn't been for Mycroft, Sherlock would have been long dead. And wasn't that a dark thought.

"I'll be careful, then to aggravate him in the least possible manner", Mycroft replied. "Ah, by the way, Dr. Watson. Someone is waiting for you in my car. I do believe it is important for you to meet."

With that, Mycroft entered the house. John sighed, but turned to the car waiting next to the sidewalk. He opened the door, only to slam it again.

"John, please", came Mary's voice. She got out of the car, to chase John, who had taken off at a brisk pace.

"John, stop, please!"she shouted.

"I have nothing to discuss with you, Miss Morstan, if that is even your name!" the usual mild mannered doctor spat.

"I know I hurt you, but please, I need to talk to you."

"I believe we have said what we needed last time."

Oh, but it hurt even now to think about it. Maybe Mary hadn't been John's imprint, but to be lied to, and so close to Sherlock's supposed death, it hurt! Still, he slowed to a regular walk, to allow the woman the small courtesy to not run after him. She stopped next to him, panting a bit.

"You have every right to be angry, but please… you must understand, John. That man has threatened my entire family, my imprint, everything I had ever held dear."

"And you… you decided to leave everything behind to…what? Seek revenge on your own? Make a deal with the devil? What else?"

Mary bowed her head. In all the time she had known John Watson, he had never, ever lost his temper. Now, though, now she knew what he must have looked like under the harsh sun of Afghanistan. Not Doctor John Watson, but Captain John Watson. He was a short man, but with his gaze full of fire, he appeared a giant in her eyes. Mary was ashamed that she had had to hurt this man, but for her family she would have done much worse. So she stayed silent. John sighed again, turned on his heals, and walked back to 221 B Baker Street, Mary trailing behind him, both lost in thought. So lost, in fact, that they did not see the car skidding to a stop in front of them, a gunman stepping out and firing one shot. But the noise was enough to rouse them. John turned in time to try and shield Mary's body, and he succeeded, only to catch the bullet himself. The gunman fled, only for his car to be intercepted by Mycroft's, and blocked. The struggle that followed was brief, but John did not see it. He had collapsed. His last thought before falling unconscious was, surprisingly, for Sherlock and not being able to apologize.

* * *

The blinding lights of St. Bart's ICU shone in his eyes as he tried to open them. Not dead, then, John thought. And in very much pain, too.

"This is the second time you take a bullet for someone else" was the first thing he heard.

"It's not like I could have done anything different," he replied tiredly.

Sherlock was there. Sherlock was there and John felt peaceful. Like every time he was near the consulting detective. And then it clicked. The despair of thinking Sherlock dead, the happiness when he returned, the brief thoughts of ending his engagement to Mary… it all added up. Sherlock had always been his imprint. And that explained a lot of things too: the fond looks he would sometimes catch himself giving the detective, only mild irritation for an uncleaned experiment, the easy acceptance of their life together. And Sherlock deleted his imprint.

John turned his head towards Sherlock, but the look in his eyes stopped him from words. It was almost the same as it had been the night they saw each other again. The same as the first hour after the Pool incident and the first meeting with Moriarty. The same as after Baskerville. Concern, happiness, but, most of all, love.

"I tried, but this is one thing that keeps coming back."

"Sherlock?"

"The imprint. I tried deleting it. I first felt it when I was about ten years old. It distracted me for an entire week. That's when I decided I didn't need the added distraction. My mind was already functioning at a too high rate. So, I decided to delete it. It worked. For a few years, at least. Then, it started up again. I believe it was during your first tour of Afghanistan. I felt it, like it was burning. So, to numb it, I began using. I'm not proud, I never have been. Afterwards, I tried deleting it again, and again. It would stay hidden, then come up again. Those two years, I stopped trying. I had, by then realized that it would only stay quiet in your presence. And in that time, I couldn't bear to actually be apart from the only thing that moved me forward. When I came back and found out about you and Mary I thought I had lost all chance of ever being happy. So I deleted it again. Only this time it didn't even budge. You, coming back to live in Baker Street… it made me think I had a chance. But you choose to save her, the person who hurt you just as much as I did… even more so."

"Sherlock, stop for a second, will you? I acted on instinct. It's in my blood to try and save lives. Mary… yes, she hurt me…. Yes, the betrayal hurt, yes, I wanted nothing more than to give in to my impulse and just wring her neck then and there, but it passed. I think that, in time, she and I would be able to actually talk to each other again, be friends, even. But you are my imprint. You are the one that has the ability to kill me and then bring me back to life with one word, one glance."

John was then stunned. Sherlock's eyes shinned, and then the next thing he knew, he was being kissed within an inch of his life. And he gave as good as he got.

Life at 221B Baker Street continued as normal. Sherlock would experiment in the kitchen, John would pretend to be angry, they would both go out and solve cases for the Scotland Yard. But something had changed and it showed in their eyes, in their touch, in their voices.

Everyone has an imprint. Yes, even Sherlock Holmes, thought John Watson.


End file.
